Oblivion
by lilyofthevalley2
Summary: "'Stop boring me,' Sherlock snapped. 'Tell me what you want, or go away.' Moriarty leaned forward, mere inches from Sherlock's reach. 'I want you to kill your pet.'" When he and John are captured by Moriarty, Sherlock faces an impossible choice. Gen, though could be read as shippy. Mentions of torture and suicide.
1. Chapter 1

He knew when John's mind had started slipping. He saw it before John did, in the way his eyes had started going vacant and distant, his sentences trailing off midway. He saw, and he knew it was more than the blood loss and the near-starvation diet. Simply put, John's mind was beginning to shrink from trauma too great for even his soldier's body and mind to cope with. Much longer, and the man would break; it was as simple as that.

Sherlock had racked his mind desperately for a plan, for anything that would get John out of this. He'd begged his captors,_ pleaded_ (he'd told Irene he never begged, but he would for John) to take him instead, hurt him instead. They'd ignored him, pretended not to even hear him, and that galled nearly as badly as his inability to find a way out. Alone, he retreated into his mind palace, now haunted with specters and shadows, trying to block out the fear and the knowledge of what was being done to John while he waited.

He'd lost track of how long it was this time when they brought John back to him, covered in blood and bruises, a dozen bones broken, sobbing and gibbering incoherently. For once, they dropped John close enough to be in Sherlock's reach despite the manacles on his ankles and wrists, and he gathered John into his arms, trying helplessly to comfort him, soothe him, or at least use his own body heat to help keep John from going into shock.

"He doesn't look so good, does he?" Sherlock snarled wordlessly at the Irish lilt, pulling John's body against his. The doctor cried out fitfully; whether at the sound of his tormentor's voice or at Sherlock jostling his injuries, the detective wasn't sure.

"So very brave at first, you know. They all are-but he was more than most. Using the naughtiest language at me. You really should train your pet better, Sherlock." Moriarty crouched down, and Sherlock would have traded the world for another inch of chain so he could throttle the bastard, the monster who'd_ dared_ to lay a hand on John.

Moriarty laughed again with a manic gleam in his eye. "I've got a present for you." He pulled out a capped vial as Sherlock glared at him in silence. "You ought to recognize this. It's the poison in those pills that sorry little cab driver was handing around. Boring little fellow, but he got your attention. Think I can do the same?"

"Stop boring me," Sherlock snapped. "Tell me what you want, or go away."

Moriarty leaned forward, mere inches from Sherlock's reach. "I want you to kill your pet."

Sherlock recoiled at the statement, shifting John against his chest, but Moriarty only laughed. "Oh, no, no, no-is that any way to treat someone who's on a mission of mercy? Your little doctor is in pain, don't you think? All alone, being tortured by the terrible criminal...awful fate for him. His mind's going, you know. He's already started talking to people who aren't there. Soon he won't even recognize you." Sherlock's stomach clenched at the thought, and more so at the fact that Moriarty was entirely correct.

"Now, you might think it won't be long until he dies anyway. But, I have some very good specialists on my team. And I assure you, I can keep him alive for _years_. Screaming in agony, and begging me to kill him. But you've got the chance to end it now. Put him out of his misery." He smiled, the expression rather like the rictus grin of a cobra. "Just like putting down a badly injured dog, right Johnny-boy?" This time, Sherlock was certain John's whimper was a response to the sound of Moriarty's voice.

Moriarty grinned insouciantly and put the vial down on the floor, and then pushed it towards the detective with a rod. Sherlock snatched it up, looking at the liquid in the dim light of the room. Impossible to be certain what it was without thorough testing, but he could at least try. He shifted John in his arms, twisted the vial's top open, and sniffed the liquid, examining it closely. It had a faint acrid whiff that stung at the back of his nose, and a slightly viscous look when he swirled it carefully, both of which would be correct for an oral suspension of the poison the cabbie had used. He stared at the vial, trying to find a way out. For a moment, his mind filed through possible scenarios, including drinking the poison himself. Surely Moriarty would have little use for John without him.

"I wouldn't try drinking it yourself, by the way," Moriarty chuckled, his voice making Sherlock's jaw clench in anger. "If you do, I'll keep him just for spite-and none of your friends will ever find where he's gone. And there isn't enough poison to kill you both. It'd only make you both rather violently sick if you try to split it."

Sherlock ignored him, but suspected he was telling the truth on both counts. He had little choice but to take him at his word anyway, under the circumstances. Moriarty stood up and turned away, walking jauntily towards the door. "You've got an hour to decide, Sherlock. Choose carefully!"

The door slammed behind the consulting criminal, and Sherlock re-stoppered the vial, setting it down cautiously. John was trembling in his arms, eyes distant and blank, his blood soaking Sherlock's already filthy clothes. He gingerly took his sleeve and tried to wipe the blood and grime from John's face, as gently as he could. "John. John, can you hear me?" He didn't know what to do, didn't see a solution to this problem. He'd been racking his mind since they captured, but his every attempt had only made things worse, and only led to John being beaten and tortured more severely.

John turned his head very slightly towards him, but Sherlock couldn't be sure how lucid he was. Still, he had to try. "John, he wants me to-to kill you. What do I do? Logically, you are in extreme pain, and it would be better to spare you that, but I also-" He faltered, knowing that Moriarty had to be watching. No, it didn't matter. He needed to say it. "You are my only friend, John. I am not sure I can kill you, even to spare you pain." He closed his eyes and shifted John again, pressing his own head against John's bloodied hair. This was a matter of conscience, of sentiment, of _heart_, and he'd never had any of those until John came along.

He felt tears welling in his eyes-tears he hadn't shed since he was a small boy. "John...tell me what to do. _Please_." He was lost without his blogger.

John shifted just a little against him, moaning in agony. Sherlock sat up and his eyes snapped open, looking down at the battered doctor. "Don't try to move, John. You're injured." And it was his fault, all his fault.

Slowly, John's eyes fluttered open. He looked in Sherlock's direction, though his eyes were distant. Even Sherlock couldn't be certain whether John was really seeing him or not. "Sherlock...'s okay. 'S fine." He coughed a few times, wet and heavy-sounding-the beginnings of pneumonia, Sherlock suspected, though he couldn't count on Moriarty's pet doctors allowing it to kill him...

No. It was the only logical thing to do. He had to get John out of this; it was his fault John was being tortured to begin with. And if death was the only way to get him away from Moriarty...well. Sherlock was a sociopath after all. He'd do what had to be done.

With a deep breath, and a final, defiant look at the cameras, he picked up the vial, turning it slowly between his fingers, and then opened it. Looking down at his doctor, his blogger, his best and only friend, he spoke softly. "John." He rested his hand gently against the side of John's forehead. "John. I need you to do something for me."

-SH-

Some distance away, Mycroft Holmes was surrounded by files and folders, desperately trying to sort through security footage, criminal reports, anything that might give him a clue where Sherlock and John had been taken. His phone chimed suddenly with a text alert, and he took it out, knowing with a shock of violent clarity that it would be something dreadful. The text alert contained an address and two sentences.

_Come pick them up. Bring a body bag._


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft Holmes despised legwork. This was a matter of simple practicality: he could spend his energy on only a limited number of things; it made the most sense to use his time and effort planning and maneuvering, and to let others carry his ideas out. Besides which, if things went south, it was far easier to deny involvement if one hadn't been there. And while his little brother was apt to mock him for the portly figure the lack of physical exertion bestowed, all in all, it was a method that worked well. Indeed, there were only two things that could force Mycroft into the field: a royal emergency or his little brother.

It was the latter which had brought him to a musty and abandoned warehouse in Belfast, of all places. He supposed that Moriarty considered it an amusing irony, given the criminal's history. Still, as much as the psychology of the place could be useful in another time and place (and indeed, profilers were already working on it now to see if they could predict anything of Moriarty's next move), it was irrelevant to Mycroft just now.

Sif-as his assistant was calling herself this week-had been speaking to the SAS man heading this operation. She nodded and returned to Mycroft, her face deadly serious. "Sir. The building's clear. They've found your brother and Dr. Watson, but you're needed."

Mycroft nodded once, brisk as he nodded to the SAS captain, who lifted his radio to tell his team that Mycroft (code named 'Chessmaster', appropriately enough) would be entering the building. Before he went though, he hesitated and shifted his grip on his umbrella. "My brother. He's all right?" His voice was steady, and if anyone else had heard it, they might have called it cavalier. Sif would know better, of course; she had been working with him for too long. He saw her look up from her Blackberry in his peripheral vision, and conceal a worried, sympathetic look.

"He's alive, sir," she said simply. Mycroft nodded slightly in response, accepting the warning that her words implied: _Brace yourself for the worst_. So be it, then.

Mycroft wound through the hallways with the soldiers, eyes easily taking in the relevant information, reading what had been done to the captives with ease. His stomach clenched with each new room they passed, unsure how close to dead Sherlock really was-the instruments of torture were quite varied, and showed signs of extensive use. And so, when he arrived at the door to what was clearly John and Sherlock's cell (obvious, based on the stench as well as the trail of blood leading to it), he mentally braced himself for anything. Or at least, so he believed.

When he pushed open the door, he gasped momentarily, his normally implacable expression slipping for an instant. Sherlock was there with a pair of paramedics beside him, though he appeared uninjured apart from bloodied wrists and ankles where he'd pulled against the manacles holding him. But clutched in his arms was the body of John Watson, held as if Sherlock could return life to the doctor by sheer force of will. Mycroft took in the scope of Dr. Watson's injuries and the empty bottle by Sherlock's side, and appalled shock turned his blood to ice as he registered what had happened.

An impossible choice. Sherlock had always tried to imitate his brother, ever since they were children together. It was, in its way, only natural. Sherlock was not only his little brother, but Mycroft was also the closest thing to a father that he'd ever known. Yet, whereas Mycroft knew himself to be a truly cold and calculating creature, entirely capable of sacrificing lives for the sake of a greater goal, Sherlock only put on a cold façade to protect himself. If anything, his little brother cared far too much. His furious deductions, his almost aggressive indifference to the feelings of others—they were meant to protect him. And yet, John Watson had slid behind all his defenses almost immediately, in a way Mycroft had never seen before.

_This will destroy him_, Mycroft concluded, a bare instant after he took in the empty bottle. _Correction: has destroyed him. He merely hasn't realized it yet._

Possibilities passed through his mind, taking a scarce few moments longer as the branching paths spread out before his mind's eye. He considered putting a bullet in Sherlock's brain then and there. It likely would have been the most merciful thing to do, and it was merely bringing Moriarty's game to its now-inevitable conclusion. However, there were…other concerns, particularly in view of the international situation. And sentimental as it was, he suspected Sherlock would prefer the chance to avenge the doctor himself.

Returning his full attention (or at least as much of his attention as he was capable of paying to any one task without entering his own Mind Palace) to the situation at hand, Mycroft sighed imperceptibly and crouched down on the floor in front of his brother, ignoring the blood and filth beneath his shoes. "Sherlock? It's time to go, little brother."

There was no answer; Mycroft hadn't really expected one. The blank, frozen look on his face suggested that Sherlock had retreated into his mind for the moment. Whether he could be brought out of it remained to be seen. Mycroft stood and looked at the paramedics hovering by his brother's side. "Sedate him. Have him checked over, treated, and then sent to my estate. Send Dr. Watson's body to a secure facility for the moment. An autopsy will need to be performed—though I expect you'll discover it was pulmonary aspiration due to acephate poisoning."

The paramedics nodded and crouched down, taking out a labeled syringe and ripping the plastic open. Midazolam, Mycroft read, and allowed himself a brief instant of sentiment, hoping that perhaps the medication might induce a long enough period of anterograde amnesia that Sherlock would forget his part in John's death. It would be the best possible outcome, but unfortunately it was hardly likely. It had been nearly two hours since Mycroft received the text message, after all.

It took just over ten minutes for Sherlock's eyes to droop shut under the watchful gaze of Mycroft and the paramedics. The SAS troops in the room had left to help sweep the rest of the building for any evidence left behind by Moriarty. 'Sif' had joined them, taking in the proceedings, and making the necessary arrangements via her mobile. Likely sensing Mycroft's mood, she didn't speak, and there was little sound besides the soft talking of the paramedics as they monitored Sherlock's respiration and pulse.

As Sherlock slid fully into unconsciousness, John's body fell to the ground with a thud that was almost deafening in the quiet room, and even Mycroft let out a sigh he hadn't realized he was holding. "Well. Let's get him back to England, shall we?"

-SH-

Sherlock woke slowly, his body heavy and his mind slow. For what seemed like several minutes, he rested in the blank grey gloom behind his eyelids. _Drugged_, his sluggish mind informed him. _But not heroin or morphine—and certainly not cocaine._ His head ached vaguely and his mouth was dry, but it was certainly nothing like the aftereffects of his drugs of choice. Something else, then, but more data was needed to conclude what.

Senses: he was on a soft surface, a bed. Probably a queen size, based on the position of the pillows propped under him, and the space he could feel at his feet. The sheets both below and above him were of high quality, expensive fabric—800 count or better cotton. He could feel the weight of covers above him—a duvet, not merely a blanket. Not a hospital, then. He could feel a faint soreness in his thigh where there had been an intramuscular injection, though, and he could tell there were bandages around his wrists and ankles.

And tickling at the back of his nose was a very faint whiff of cologne—the kind worn by…

Mycroft.

_John._

_John!_

He sat up suddenly, gasping as memory flooded back into him. The cell—the stench of blood and waste and John…_and John_.

His head spun, and there were hands on his back and his shoulder, quiet words in his ear that he couldn't make out, couldn't process because _John was dead and he had killed him._ He looked around wildly, taking in the worried, unusually rumpled (_dark circles under his eyes, hasn't slept in some time, has been in the same clothes for at least a day, slight smudge of cinnamon under his fingernail says that he'd had a pastry a bit ago)_ figure of his brother, and the walls of the room that had been his when he was a boy. He tried to leap out of bed, stumbling and finding that his body wouldn't obey him properly. Mycroft tried to grab him, but Sherlock snarled and grasped his brother's coat. "_Where is he, Mycroft?_" he demanded, his voice slurred and more desperate than he'd like. "Where's John? I should _be_ with him!" Perhaps it wasn't too late—if they started CPR, if they pumped his stomach… They just needed to _try_.

Mycroft looked disquieted and shook his head. "Sherlock. You're in no state to go anywhere. And John…John is not here."

Mycroft attempted to lead Sherlock back to the bed, but Sherlock shook his head stubbornly. He was aware on some level that he was being irrational, but rage swept through him, and he longed to strike Mycroft's pudgy, self-satisfied face with every ounce of power in his body. "How long did you wait?" he shouted, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Did you even _try_, Mycroft? Or did you write him as an acceptable loss in your little black book? Did you even _care _we were gone, or did the British government not bother to look for us?"

His brother looked wounded, but Sherlock didn't care. He _hurt_; there was a gaping hole in his chest, and he needed to lash out at someone, _anyone_ to make it stop. His legs wobbled beneath him, and Mycroft eased him back into the bed, tucking the blankets around Sherlock. "By the time we arrived, he had been dead for over two hours. Rigor mortis was beginning to set in. There was nothing that could be done."

Sherlock wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and drown out the words. _Rigor mortis_ had nothing to do with John, with light and hot tea, with hideous jumpers and mad dashes through the dark, with admonishments to eat and sleep and unwavering loyalty.

_John is dead._

The mental words hit him like a punch to the solar plexus, leaving him breathless and gasping, trying desperately for a way to turn them, change them, make them less final, less true.

_John is dead._

He couldn't change them; the words seemed to echo from every vaulted ceiling of his mind palace, haunting the corridors with the echoes of John's agonized screams.

_John is dead, and I murdered him_.

_(Murderer, murderer,)_ hissed through the corridors of his mind, and he stared at his hands, half expecting them to be stained with John's blood. There were only the bandages, though. Shuddering violently, he shut the door of his mind palace. He took a moment to compose himself and looked up at his brother, his voice level and cold. "Where is he, Mycroft? I want to see John's…I need to see him."

Mycroft insisted that Sherlock wait for the sedation to wear off more fully and eat something before they went to the morgue. Idiotic, of course. What did it matter whether he ate or not? Mycroft couldn't possibly think it was relevant now. But it was also too much trouble to protest, and he ate mechanically, without tasting the food. He was silent on the drive from their family's estate, huddling into his coat and scarf, staring at the passing scenery and grasping at anything he could deduce from the cars flying by to distract himself from the words that wouldn't stop hammering through him. But every pothole and passing car seemed to be saying it over and over: _Dead, dead. John is dead._ How he loathed the stupid, _idiotic_ people in those cars, laughing and smiling or just driving ignorantly by, not understanding that _John was dead_. How could they not know? How could they be so _blind_?

He'd have retreated into his Mind Palace, but he doubted there'd be much respite there. John had too much space there, had changed or affected far too many rooms…how could he not have realized how foolish it was to allow anyone in like that? Dangerous for him, and dangerous for John. How could he not have _known_? How could he have allowed mere _sentiment_ to affect him so badly?

He was silent until they got the nondescript industrial building. Clearly it was one of Mycroft's complexes; it was heavily guarded and patrolled. Sherlock might have once taken pleasure in breaking in just to irritate his brother. Now he only felt a vague sense of _wrongness _that John should be taken here instead of St. Bart's. That was where they'd met, after all. It should have been where he…where they…

His mind shied from completing the idea, and he got out of the car as the chauffeur pulled up to the entrance. Mycroft led the way, and Sherlock scarcely even observed the people inside. His mind felt as if it was wrapped up in dull, heavy cloth.

_John is dead._

_John is dead, and I'm going to see his body._

A last swipe of Mycroft's badge (Sherlock didn't even bother to try and steal it), and the doors opened on a cool, windowless room. The mortuary attendant spoke to Mycroft for a moment, and then pulled the drawer open, revealing…

Sherlock stared at the body for a minute, unable to believe it was John (had been John) lying there. Then he walked towards it as if in a trance, staring down at the sandy hair, at the fixed expression. Mycroft touched his shoulder for a moment, murmured, "I'll be outside, little brother," and left, closing the door behind him.

For what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock stared at the corpse. He'd seen so many before. It was hardly anything to be upset about. All humans died, and once they were gone, the body was simply an empty shell, soon to be returned to its constituent components. But this…this had been John. Almost desperately, he traced over the naked body with his eyes, trying to find some proof that the corpse wasn't John, that this was some trick and John was alive. Old injuries were consistent with the victim's military record: Sherlock lifted the body's left shoulder and peered behind it, seeing the gunshot scar and the one from the surgery where they'd extracted the bullet. The corresponding one in front was much smaller, where his broken clavicle had pierced the skin. The teeth were somewhat discolored, likely from doxycycline administered to prevent malaria.

(John had never bothered to have it taken care of—said he never had time to visit a dentist with Sherlock about.)

More recent wounds…

He began to catalog them, but his mind stuttered to a halt, at the quantity, at the expert placement to inflict the maximum pain possible while still leaving the victim alive. So many. There were so many, and John…

_John._

Sherlock's legs gave out under him, and he sank to the floor, leaning against the refrigerator with his head in his hands. Irrational as it was, he spoke, even though he was well aware there was no one left to hear him. "I didn't realize the danger, John. Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of me, and I didn't think…I didn't realize…"

His voice broke for a moment, the gaping void in his chest threatening to swallow him whole. "I should have _known_, John. I should never have brought you into this. Alone is what I have. Alone protects me—and everyone else." He closed his eyes, hands clenching in his own hair as if he could tear the memories out. "I miscalculated, John. I misjudged, and you paid the price. I…"

_I'm sorry_.

He couldn't say it, not out loud. Not when he'd put the body of his best friend on the slab. For a long time, he simply sat on the frigid floor, staring at the cold, outdated tiles on the floor. Finally, he stood up and stared at the body.

John's body.

When he finally spoke, his voice sounded strange in his ears: hard and cold as ice. "You killed for me once, John, not a day after we'd first met. I can hardly do any less for you." He would kill them—he would make them pay. The men who'd stolen John, who'd dared to rob the world of his conductor of light.

They would pay. Slowly. Painfully. And whatever they had done to John (he looked at the body now, cataloging each cut, each burn, each broken bone for reference), he would do to them three times over.

He would do it for John.

With a single nod of his head, Sherlock allowed himself one final piece of sentiment. He took off his coat, laid it over John's body, and quietly murmured, "Good-bye, John Watson." Then with a last curt nod, he pushed the drawer closed and strode out of the morgue.

**AN: **For those who care, there are a few edits to Chapter 1, and I think I've fixed all the tense and grammar issues there. If you spot any still in either chapter, feel free to point them out. I did my best to take a reasonable guess at the medications and poisons, but there may be errors. There may be one more chapter, but I haven't decided yet. Please review and let me know if you'd like to see this continued!


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